


Emily and Will

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Jon works the night shift at the public library. It's a chance for him to hang out with his favorite girl, Emily Dickinson. That is, until Beautiful Redhead whirls into his life with a friend named William Shakespeare and a hatred for Russian lit.oneshot, written for a prompt





	Emily and Will

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone, this was written to fill a prompt I received on tumblr. if you want to send me a prompt, feel free! you can find me @wintermellons. enjoy this short oneshot :)

It’s unusual for a public library to run 24/7, but since the university is only ten minutes away, Jon finds himself sitting at the checkout desk pulling the night shift for the third time that week. He’s not complaining for any reason. The only people who come in are stressed out, caffeine-filled college students who are desperately searching for extra copies of classic novels or a computer to print out their long-as-fuck reports.

Sure, it’s a little weird for a good-looking twenty-year-old kid to have a job at a place where most of the employees are fifty year old women (probably named Pam or Ruth). But he gets free hot drinks, wi-fi all night, and access to the woman he loves most in the world.

“Hey, Em,” he says as he opens up the aged copy of _Poems by Emily Dickinson._ Strange as it may seem, Emily has been Jon’s go-to author for the past ten years. He attributes it to his own mother’s love for the poet. When he was little, she would read Emily’s poems to him before bed.

Just as he’s starting to read, the door bursts open. Jon is certain he’s fallen asleep and started dreaming. The new arrival is a gorgeous redhead, wearing high heels and a short black party dress. She marches up to the front desk and starts rummaging around in her silver clutch purse. Triumphantly, she pulls out a yellow sticky note.

“Listen, I know how this looks,” she begins, “but I’m sort of a mess right now and I need a couple books.”

“We… um… yeah, we have those.” _Oh, nice fucking job, Snow. Of course you have books it’s a fucking library._

“Good, because I know it’s probably hell with finals coming up. I nearly forgot to stop by, but somehow sober me was smart enough to put a note in my purse so slightly-drunk me could remember.” She shakes her head and blinks. Jon can smell cigarettes and vodka on top of her lemony perfume. Alarms are ringing in his head.

“Are you okay? I can call the police if you need me to,” he offers. Unfortunately, he’s had to do it several times for other girls who needed to escape their crazy boyfriends. Suddenly he’s wondering if Beautiful Redhead has a boyfriend. Shit. He really hopes she doesn’t.

“What? No, I’m fine. Only had three drinks. I’m an English major and- well, you get the idea. Anyways, here’s the list.” She presses the sticky note in his hand. The writing is flowery and neat. _Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Poetry of Robert Frost._

“Easy enough. I’ll go find them,” he says, ducking into the storage room. He could easily just pick out the old, torn-up copies that are out on the shelves, but for some reason he firmly believes that Beautiful Redhead deserves clean white pages instead of ugly, yellow, bent ones.

There’s a box labelled _NEW ARRIVALS: CLASSICS & POETRY _sitting on the floor. He opens it up and goes digging through. At the very top is a collection of Emily Dickinson poetry. Jon really does try to ignore it. After a moment of hesitation, he sets it aside. The books on Beautiful Redhead’s list are easy enough to find, and he brings them out with a flourish.

“Right, if you need to sign up for a card-”

“Already have one,” she says, handing him the little plastic slip. He takes it and examines the name. _Sansa._ The last name has been smudged and faded, but _Sansa_ is all he needs. It seems poetic and sweet, the way it rolls through his head. _Sansa._

“Yeah?”

_God fucking dammit, Snow, you’re not supposed to say what you’re thinking._

“Nice name,” he says, setting to work on checking out the books to her. “You like Russian lit?”

“Nope, but for some reason one of my literature teachers is obsessed with it. Trust me, I had to fight tooth and nail through War and Peace,” says Sansa. She leans against the desk, and Jon tries very hard not to look at her cleavage, which is very obvious in her strapless dress.

“I read Crime and Punishment in my junior year. It was both a crime and a punishment,” he jokes. Sansa giggles, and he’s already mentally high fiving himself for making her laugh. Her cheeks stand out more when she smiles, while her blue eyes sparkle like sapphires.

“Oh! Emily Dickinson!” she notices his book, still open next to a cup of tea that’s probably turned cold.

“Yeah, I really love Emily,” he says.

“I can see. You’re on a first name basis with her,” Sansa teases. “What other poets do you like?”

Ah, son of a bitch. Soon she’ll realize he’s as boring as a wall. “Just her.”

“Seriously? Nobody else? What about Shakespeare, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Alfred, Lord Tennyson… any of them?” Jon feels like an idiot. He’s nearing his mid-twenties and of course he’s only ever loved Emily (and now Sansa- _god, he’s a loser_ ).

“I should totally read more. I’ve never been big on variety, which totally sucks, but-”

“Hey, don’t freak out. I’ve always liked Whitman and Frost best, but Emily is my number one bitch,” she says, then hiccups. “Maybe I had four drinks. I should leave before I totally embarrass myself in front of someone as cute as you.”

They stare at each other. She realizes what she’s said.

“Oh my god. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… just forget I said that, okay?” With a dutiful nod, Jon slips the spare Emily book to the side and puts the others in a plastic grocery bag.

“It was raining earlier, and I wouldn’t want the ink to run. Are you sure I can’t call a cab for you?” he offers. She’s already tapping out the number of someone on her phone called ‘the older brother’. Still not a boyfriend. Two mental thumbs up.

“I’ll be okay. Hey, what’s your name? Do you work here _every_ day at one in the morning?”

“I’m Jon,” he says, “and yeah, I do.” Sansa reaches out and awkwardly shakes his hand. It sends shivers down his spine and an electric current to his brain.

“See you later, Jon.”

She disappears out of the door, wobbling a bit on her heels.

“Bye, Sansa,” he whispers. The Emily book is lying open, as if to yell at him to _get his head out of his ass already._

“Sorry.”

And of course there’s no reply.

 

_one week later_

 

“Are you some sort of vampire, Jon?” Sansa asks with a laugh. She’s dressed in a white turtleneck and jeans with her auburn hair braided to the side. Jon sets aside his book and tea, offering the dorkiest smile ever.

“Either that or I’m the only one who’s willing to take a night shift.” The last group of late night studiers left half an hour ago. He’s spent the past seven days wondering if that beautiful redhead might show up again. Lo and behold, it’s her, in all of her “Emily is my main bitch” splendor.

“I hate to bother you, but I need a copy of the university’s level three French class textbook. You have that, right?” Jon nods and looks up the title before going to fetch it from the reference section. Sansa is interesting to learn about from her library checkouts. He knows that she loves classical literature - except Russian - and poetry, and speaks French well enough to be using an advanced textbook. When he sets it on the desk, her card is already in her hand.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” she says with a perfect accent.

“I took German in high school,” he says with an apologetic shrug.

“C’est bon, je vous pardonne.” He grins and slides her the book.

“Due on the fifteenth.”

“I have some books to check in, too,” she says, and hands him Anna Karenina, Leaves of Grass, and another book with a title that’s covered by an old dust jacket. Jon checks in the first two, but can’t find a barcode on the third.

“Did the plastic jacket fall off or something?” he asks, reaching for a roll of masking tape. Sansa yelps and grabs his wrist.

_Shit fuck shit fuck, he’s on Defcon One. Any physical contact is going to drive him legitimately crazy._

“No, it’s my copy! Please don’t tape it! I got it at an old antiques place, and I wanted to lend it to you so you’d have something other than Emily Dickinson,” she explains quickly. Jon stares at her, mouth hanging open like a goddamn idiot.

“You… for me?”

She releases her grip on his arm, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. They stand in a thick silence. Jon looks down and reads the title, which is printed in shiny gold letters. _Shakespeare’s Sonnets._

“Sansa, thank you so much,” he says, “and I’m really sorry I nearly destroyed your book with masking tape.”

Sansa smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the poems. See you sometime, I guess?” She grabs her textbook and starts to head away, but Jon is quicker. He wraps his hand around the textbook, and she stops to frown at him.

“If you leave your book with me, we both know that you’re going to come back in a week to get it back. And when you do, you’re going to find a really shitty, awkward note in it that says something along the lines of ‘do you want to grab coffee and talk about poetry’, except thirty percent more awkward. What I’m saying is… can I save us both some trouble and just ask you now?”

He’s almost sure he’s blown it. Her face is unreadable as they gaze at each other. She bites her lip ( _even though he’d totally offer to do that for her_ ), probably thinking of a good way to let him down.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Ask me.”

 _Showtime, Snow_. He inhales deeply and holds out her copy of the sonnets.

“Sansa, the most beautiful redhead, would you do me the great honor of getting coffee and talking about poetry sometime?” Jon feels like a dumb, five-dollar Mr. Darcy rip off, and then Sansa smiles.

“It would be an honor,” she says, taking the book and tucking it into her bag. They grin at each other, which turns into fits of giggles. Jon’s eyes are completely bloodshot and his feet ache, but he’s never felt better.

“I’m definitely never going to forget this,” she says. Her fingers brush against his, and the next thing he knows, he’s kissing her softly in the middle of an empty library at two in the morning. She tastes like chapstick and lemon, and _fuck,_ he wants to drown in her. The desk that separates them digs into his legs as he leans further into the kiss.

As he’s driving home that night, he can still feel it. With a dumb grin on his face, he unlocks the front door of his apartment. Both of his roommates are in the living room.

“Hey, Snow! Any news about that mystery lover of yours?” asks Robb. He and Theon are watching Lord of the Rings for the sixth time in a week. Since Jon didn’t give many details about his first encounter with Sansa, he feels the need to catch them up.

“Her name is Sansa, she smells like lemons, we made out at the library and it was the best day of my life,” Jon says. He’s still in a state of childlike amazement, and doesn’t notice the murderous glare that has appeared in Robb’s eyes.

“What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Just. Say?”

Theon glances back and forth between them. “Oh shit, Snow! Did you seriously feel up Robb’s little sister at a public library?”

“No way! I said Sansa, not Arya,” says Jon.

“He has _two_ sisters, dumbass! Sansa’s the hot one with red hair!”

Robb is glowering at both Jon and Theon. _Fuck it._

“Theon, the answer is yes. And it was worth it.”

 _The black eye was totally worth it too_ , Jon would later decide.


End file.
